


Hello My Old Heart

by WalkerLister



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s12e10 The Timeless Children, hop onboard the angst train to prison choo choo, i wrote this impulsively in an hour, okay this first one is just hurt but i have plans for comfort, revolution of the daleks au? idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:35:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27806179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WalkerLister/pseuds/WalkerLister
Summary: 'She collects her discarded paper and pen. Just this one more ash from the fire, then she can rest, then she can rest… but she will never really rest, not until she finds the Doctor.She puts pen to paper, and the biro goes scratching on and on and on.'***'Her hand travels down the wall, fingertips catching at the uneven scratchings. Hundreds and hundreds of scratchings. Hundreds and hundreds of days. There will be more, there will be many more.'
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 45
Kudos: 77





	1. Scratching

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in an hour and spent more time thinking of a title lol, so it may change. Also, this is very angsty, but I do have plans for a couple of follow up chapters for some of the sweet sweet comfort.  
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> edit: title change to 'Hello My Old Heart' by the Oh Hellos

Her ears are ringing in the silence. It bounces off the walls and back at her, and Yaz shakes her head to clear it, exhaustion dragging down at the edges of her consciousness. The scratching of her biro against the paper is the only other noise in the control room, apart from the occasional bleep from the machine, but it is nothing like the Doctor’s Tardis. It has not warmed to her, does not seem to have a personality, not one that Yaz can feel like she used to be able to feel in the Doctor’s Tardis, surrounding her, enveloping her. Warming her from the inside.

This Tardis is empty and quiet. Only Yaz for company. And for Yaz, there is only the poor company of the Tardis, too. That, and her multitude of papers.

Post-it notes and sheets scatter the floor, stick to the console, taped to the wall. The paper pieces of the person she misses most, she longs to find, is doing everything she can _to_ find, if she is out there.

Is she out there? This is the question Yaz cannot consider, cannot bring herself to even question because if she were to, if she were to take a moment to consider the fact that the Doctor might just be gone in an explosion and a demolished planet, then she will be gone, too, lost to her anxiety and her grief.

She has to keep going. She has to do this. She cannot leave her behind.

The biro continues to scratch, and scratch, as Yaz writes down the snippets she has, whatever small clues, like ashes from the fire that has burnt down the life they had with her before, before the Master, before Gallifrey, before it all burnt down, she writes all those ashes into words and sticks them to the walls as if that might mean something.

But really it is nothing, and she is no closer to finding the Doctor than she had been months ago.

She clenches her eyes shut at the thought as a wave of grief washes over her, agonising, pulling her mouth into a grimace. She turns. She does not want to look but she does. She turns and looks at that spot, the place by the entryway, where she had said goodbye all those months ago.

_Live great lives._

Her breath is ragged, tears catch at the corner of her eyes, but Yaz blinks them away, shaking herself. No one can see her cry, not even herself. She _has_ to keep going. She has to-

Her phone rings in her pocket, and Yaz scrambles for it, thinking, for one moment, that possibly it might be-

But it is only Sonya. Sonya, probably concerned about her, wondering where she is. Yaz cannot think about herself, there is only one person she is wondering the location of, hoping… longing.

It all becomes too much, and Yaz throws her phone across the console room, watching it thump against the soft material of the rolled up sleeping bag and blankets she has stowed away on the other side of the console. Maybe that was lucky, that it did not smash against the hard floor, but nothing feels important, not like her search is. Not like the Doctor is.

Yaz crouches, a sob building which scratches at her throat. She curls in on herself, hunching her arms into her body, longing for someone else’s arms around her, always longing, never having, not quite, and then it had all abruptly come to an end. This is not how it is supposed to go, she is not meant to be curled up on the floor when the Doctor is missing; she needs to be the Yaz everyone sees, the one Graham praised, the strong Yaz who never lets anything or anyone bother her… but it is hard when she feels burnt out from the inside, seeing the ashes of her former self only in the ashes of information she can find as she searches for the Doctor, and they are fleeting and crumble under her fingers, and Yaz is left with nothing.

She eyes the bedding out of the corner of her eye, considering it, longing for it as exhaustion drags down at her bones. She has no idea what time it is, but it must be late. But that is no excuse, she needs to… needs to…

Yaz digs her fingernails into the soft flesh of her thigh, waking herself up. She uncurls and stands straight, pushing her shoulders back, breathing deep. She collects her discarded paper and pen. Just this one more ash from the fire, then she can rest, then she can rest… but she will never really rest, not until she finds the Doctor.

She puts pen to paper, and the biro goes scratching on and on and on. 

* * *

The Doctor scrapes another line onto the wall, discarding the small rough stone used for the job to another lonely corner of her cell, and then settles back on her haunches in the one she has currently settled herself. Another day down. She thinks. She is guessing, at this point. Time stretches on, passes her by whilst also trapping her, unable to escape its constant movement, unable to play, and it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, makes her feel nauseous.

Her greasy hair is irritating, a constant itch she cannot get rid of, and she resists the urge to run her fingers through it, knowing it will only leave them feeling unpleasant, too. Not that they are not already unpleasant; her skin is paper-dry, the air in this merciless place is artificial, too filtered, too thin, not fresh at all. It makes her feel ancient. She _is_ ancient. That thought sits unpleasantly, too; she feels unpleasant inside _and_ out. She feels… displaced, cut off. From the person she thought she knew, from the people she misses, from the universe just beyond dangerously sparking bars, she cannot even feel the Tardis; there are some kind of psychic dampeners in place. It is agony.

The Doctor is good at agony, sometimes it feels like an old friend, but for her, barely rising from the ashes of Gallifrey, from the ashes of everything she had thought she knew about herself, for her who loves to chatter at a hundred miles an hour, can barely stand to be alone for a single second, this agony is painful, like scratching at a chalkboard, like ringing in her ears. She focuses on the lines on the wall; they might be agony, but it is agony she can see, the passing of time, something she can control, even though she is powerless, just by _looking_ at them. That is, if she does not think too carefully about, if she does not think about how she is the one to estimate the passing of time going by the routines of the sordid hovel, not quite knowing whether it is accurate, whether it is _true_ ; if she thinks about that, she might very well unravel.

If she thinks about anything else, she might unravel.

If she thinks about…

If she thinks…

If she…

Hooded eyes implore her not to go, being torn apart from the inside before she had even taken her final step away from them, from _her._ Those eyes have imprinted themselves on the back of her eyelids, every time her own close, there those eyes greet her. She tries not to sleep, she tells herself she does not need to, even though she surely must by now, even as she feels the cold seeping into her bones through her scratchy jumpsuit. But she cannot sleep. If she sleeps, she sees those eyes. She sees the eyes of dozens of children, too, sacrificed in the name of exploration, or experimentation. For the glory of-

The Doctor lurches forward, bracing herself with a hand against the wall, breathing hard. She blinks, those sad hazel eyes swimming in her vision. No, not sleeping, cannot sleep. She might lose track of time if she sleeps, and then where will she be then? Completely adrift, completely unravelled.

Her hand travels down the wall, fingertips catching at the uneven scratchings. Hundreds and hundreds of scratchings. Hundreds and hundreds of days. There will be more, there will be many more. She slumps forward, unable to stop herself.

But how many?

The scratchings go on and on and on and the Doctor unravels.

And hooded eyes laden with sorrow scorch the back of her eyelids until she is burnt down to ashes.


	2. Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, the comfort is coming in the next one, I promise! This got very angsty again....  
> Thank you for all the support on the last chapter, it means a lot and I'll reply to comments as soon as I can, but for now... enjoy!

“Doctor!”

Yaz is near-panting as she throws herself into the Tardis- the _Doctor’s_ Tardis, not her own mausoleum of a ship. The comforting warm glow of the lights greets her, the machine humming to life in Yaz’s presence, but Yaz looks past this familiar presence to look for another. Hunched over the console, perhaps? Or is she doing repairs down below? Or perhaps she is hiding within the Tardis’ infinite depths?

Only…

It feels wrong, Yaz can just _tell_ that there is someone missing.

“She’s not here, is she?” She asks, and around her the Tardis thrums in apology, mournful, and Yaz’s breath rattles out of her. She places a hand to one of the pillars, feeling its warmth beneath her fingers, reacting to her, comforting her, and she takes a moment to soak in its familiarity, to transfer that warmth to herself. There is still hope.

 _Find the Tardis, find the Doctor._ That is what Jack had said.

He follows Yaz in soon after, and one look at her hung head, his mouth settles into a thin line and he strides towards the console. The Tardis protests his poking and prodding at first, and Jack gets irritated, but eventually, the ship accepts his help.

Yaz keeps a hold of the pillar as the ship responds to Jack’s questioning in bleeps and low bonging sounds, simply allowing herself to feel the Tardis under her hand. She was not sure she ever would again, being left only with the cool, cold interiors of a Tardis that is distant from her, became the canvas for her sorrow, repurposed and misused; in the end, Jack had used it to lead them to _this_ Tardis, _the_ Tardis, but to Yaz it will always be a cold place of goodbyes. This Tardis, however, is like coming home again, and the warmth it instils in her nurtures the small hope which begins to grow in her chest, despite the rotting of grief and hopelessness within her, despite how much else there is against them, that possibly… her search might almost be over.

The Tardis lurches into movement, and Yaz holds on tight to the pillar, silently begging the machine under her hold: _Bring her back, bring her back to us, bring her back to me._ Yaz could swear in that moment that the machine replies back to her, but there is a ringing in her ears that she cannot quite hear it past.

A thump, and Yaz staggers, almost falling, but she regains her footing before she can. That is what is needed right now: cannot fall, must keep going, must find her. Earth needs her. The Universe needs her. Yaz needs her.

“Alright! Where are we?” Jack asks the machine, staring down at the console. His face darkens, and finally Yaz lets go of the pillar, heading over with dread in her gut. Into the darkness.

“What is it?” She asks, voice hoarse. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere I hoped I would never be.” Jack answers ominously.

“Where?”

One of the most secure prisons in the universe, apparently, and Yaz stomach turns at the word. _Prison._ In all her work, in all her investigations, she had not even thought to consider the Doctor might be in prison. Ironic for a police officer. She might find it funny, but right now the irony is sickening, her overlooking this potential sickening, the truth at last sickening. _Why prison?_

“We need to be quick.” Jack tells her, and Yaz nods, knowing they do, that there are people, a planet, counting on them, but it takes her a moment to force her legs to move. They feel leaden with the weight that has fallen on her shoulders, replacing the weight of months’ worth of searching.

She moves off from the comfort of the Tardis, patting the console once, reassuringly, for herself or for the Tardis, she is not sure. But the machine hums under her palm and it feels like a boost, an encouragement. _You can do this,_ it seems to say, _you can bring her home._

Yaz is struck by the oppressiveness of the place from the moment she steps out of the Tardis. The air is thin and unpleasant, she already feels grimy, the walls steely, cold. It is so, so cold, and damp. It is dark, whatever scant light there is artificial, thrumming with static. Electric, dangerous. Yaz feels cut off from everything, even from reality. Prison, indeed. Sickness curls up in her stomach and she takes a few deep breaths, but she cannot seem to get enough oxygen as her heart pounds in her chest.

They take things as slow as they dare, knowing what rests on this mission. They have a timeship, they should not need to worry about _time,_ for goodness sake, but the constant state of tension they have been in the past few days makes it hard to break the habit, especially as even more tension is added _by_ the mission itself. But they move carefully, not wanting to be spotted. Guards pass them by, the Judoon, the same as had been in Gloucester. Yaz had not liked them then and she certainly does not now, keeping the Doctor in a place like _this._

“The Tardis is saying she’s near here.” Jack whispers to her as they edge around a corner, the small device in his hand glowing and emitting a soft beeping noise which is getting more and more persistent, provided for them by the Tardis, as eager as them to see her thief returned.

“Jack!” Yaz whispers harshly, her heart thundering in her chest as her stomach lurches as a figure comes into sight, being escorted by two Judoon guards, head bowed, hands clasped together loosely in front of their body. They are clothed in a scratchy-looing maroon jumpsuit, with strange writing down one side, and their _hair…_ it looks dishevelled, greasy, unkempt. Obviously, prisoners are not kept in a great condition, even worse, in a barely ethical condition. Maybe there is no place for ethics here, in one of the securest prisons in the universe. Yaz shudders, swallowing bile.

That is her.

She is there, only dozens of feet away from Yaz, after all this time.

The Doctor.

She looks…

“Is that her?” Jack asks her, voice grim, cutting across her horrid realisation. Yaz nods, taking a steadying breath, and Jack grimaces too.

“Yeah. That’s her.”

It is like she can hardly believe her own words. She suddenly feels dizzy, and Yaz holds onto the wall they are pressed to, keeping herself upright whilst she waits for it to pass. It is the shock, she knows, months of waiting to see her face again and yet not knowing exactly how, or where, and suddenly she has been presented with _this._ In her dreams the Doctor reunites with her looking like she had at her best, all rainbows and a cheery smile, and in her nightmares she does not, she never comes back, is dead. But this, this is like a purgatory state of misery.

Yaz digs her fingers in harder against the wall. The metal beneath her grip is cold and grimy. The wall is smooth but thrumming with the artificiality of this place. It is foe to Yaz, cold and hard and her fingers slip against it as she tries to process the place she is in, the Doctor is in, but she is here to break her out of it, it will not hold her for much longer.

She watches at the Judoon push the Doctor into a cell, presumably, shouting at her aggressively. There is no response. And then the cell door is closing with a heavy clinking of metal and the guards are moving back along the corridor, and Yaz and Jack are alone. They share a look, and then they are off, creeping towards the cell as quietly and as quickly as possible.

“Can you get it open?” She whispers to Jack, glancing back and forth up and down the corridor checking to see if anyone is coming. But it is quiet, eerily so, just the artificial thrumming and the static from the lights. Jack bends down to look at the small panel by the side of the door, fiddling with it.

“Oh, just watch me.” He says, but he sounds less than sure.

It takes him an age to get it open, he tries many different things. Yaz only pays half attention, ears pricking for any sound from down the corridor, eyes alert for anything hint of movement. Finally, Jack pulls something from one of his coat pockets with exclamation, muttering something about some alien in a bar giving him a certain tool which is the same model as this model of security system, and the moment he uses it on the device, the door stutters and staggers open, loose on its hinges, exposing the cell beyond. Yaz feels like she, too, is being exposed, vulnerable, all her emotions flayed and out in the open, as she takes in the sight in front of her.

Months of expectation have already been served the starter by the sight of the Doctor, but this, the main course, confronted with her face to face like this… it is bitter on the tongue, bitter with shock and with terror. Yaz is frozen, taking in the sight in front of her.

She begins with the walls, the steely, cold walls, oppressive forces, but scarred with row upon row of tallies. They cover almost every surface, white scarring onyx in jagged, untidy lines. It is obvious what they are representative of, the passing of time, but what time that is, Yaz is unsure, but she can see just from their volume and the haphazard way they fill the room in depressing decoration that it has been _far too long._ Yaz thinks of the walls that have confined her, decorated with her own frustrations and desperations as she had tried to hold on to the last thing she had, unfriendly and unfamiliar… she shivers at the similarity that is displayed here. This is not right; these walls speak desperation.

Speaking. The Doctor is doing that, too, as she sits down on a hard, flat surface. There is a small raggedy blanket by her side, and Yaz blanches to realise that must be a _bed,_ and no, this is terrible. They had seen things this bad on their travels, but there the Doctor had been, with the three of them by her side, saving the day, but now they are here but maybe they are late and the Doctor, she appears to have not been able to help herself because…

The Doctor sits hunched with her elbows on her knees, ratty hair in her face as her eyes track the tallies on the wall in front of her, talking quickly, as she had always done, and that _voice…_ it is so familiar and so comforting but the tone is ragged and the words… she is counting, numbers, calculations, and it seems she has not noticed the opening of her cell door, so focussed on her task as her eyes move unblinkingly, tracing the marks on the wall. Finding meaning in the desperation; desperation feeding off desperation, and endless circle.

Yaz wants to run forwards but she also wants to turn back and run. Her grief, it needs somewhere to go, it needs relief, the reward after all these months of being able to say ‘she is alive and I have found her’, but there is no relief to be found here and it builds up in Yaz, ready to explode like a volcano, and she almost feels dizzy again. But Jack is at her back and she is pushing forward into the space, pushing towards the Doctor, her feet urging her on as if her own body is saying ‘you can do this’. She approaches whatever remains of the woman she had idolised, had admired, the woman she-

Her despair is almost tangible, sends cold dread down her spine which seems to spread from the frigid walls, the artificial air, infecting her lungs, seeping into her bloodstream; Yaz feels poisoned, suffocating. It could be very easy for her in that moment to freeze in place and be overcome by a hypothermia of emotion, seeing the most amazing person she has ever met being brought so low, unable to help herself. But in that moment, Yaz finds that inner warmth spread from the Tardis, in her chest, blossoming like a flower. Its petals are delicate, freshly grown, and far too unstable for such a hellish place as this, but it is enough for her to step forward further towards the Doctor in _hope_ as well as despair. She breaths in the cold frigid air, a deep steadying breath.

“My god.” Jack murmurs behind her, taking it all in. Yaz ignores him, set with single-minded determination on the Doctor now. She is still scared, but she has finally reached the moment she has been anticipating for months, and Yaz will rise to it.

“Doctor?” She asks, coming to a stop by the other woman, crouching down. Her legs feel numb.

The Doctor continues to reel off numbers, unhearing, eyes flittering agitatedly still. Her fingers twitch a little where her hands hang limply, and when the Doctor does not respond to Yaz calling her a second time, Yaz carefully takes one of those hands in her own.

It is more than just a touch of skin on skin, it is connection, a coming together after so long and it takes Yaz’s breath away. To _feel_ the Doctor beneath her, a physical presence, freezing cold but so alive. Yaz tightens her hold. “Doctor?”

The Doctor startles, and she near-falls from the bed, stumbling to the corner, ripping her hand from Yaz’s. Yaz pushes back herself in shock, rising to her full height, her heart hammering in her chest. She is unseated from her confidence for a moment, shock taking over.

The Doctor is wide-eyed and open mouthed and staring at Yaz in compete shock. She blinks, frowning, as if she cannot believe the other woman is there. Yaz gathers herself and takes a step forward, but the Doctor stumbles back further, and then her eyes lock on Jack just behind Yaz and they widen even more, and she shakes her head, uncomprehending.

“No…” She mutters, words cutting through cold air with the severity of a butter knife, barely making a dent. She clenches her eyes shut, turns her head away from them, her hands curling into fists. “No…”

“Doctor…” Yaz ventures again, her breath pluming in clouds as she speaks, lungs filling with icicles.

“That’s not possible, that’s not _possible._ ”

“Doctor-” Jack tries to intervene but he, too, seems frozen by this moment, this hostile place. Tallies marked on the walls, a horrid truth in front of their eyes.

The Doctor stumbles again, her back hitting one of the steely walls. Her hands splay against it, fingers digging in. it looks as if it is the only thing holding her up as she tries to come to terms with reality, with the breaking ice of this horrid place. She looks into Yaz’s eyes, and Yaz looks back, and both of them are frozen as they struggle to come to terms with the realisation of each other. Emotions sit as if tangible beings in the air between them, as multitudinous as the tally marks, and Yaz breathes in and out in the frigid air and realises that the search might be over, but the small flower of hopes she holds close to her chest needs to survive frosty surroundings first.

And they are trapped between cold metal walls. 

* * *

Her limbs are tired, laden down with a cold which seeps in deep, between her joints, in her blood, pumped by two hearts which stubbornly go on beating. The small hope they hold between them is growing ever more fragile by the moment, and as the Doctor is escorted back to her cell by Judoon guards she can feel the petals falling from it one by one as it shrivels.

It has been small but persistent for so long now, but finally, it seems it has been defeated. It is too cold here for hope, sometimes.

Her last ditch attempt, years in the making, gone to pot. Blown. She should have known better than to believe she had allies in this place; she is infamous here, and her misery is many of the other inmates’ pleasure. Was it ever really going to work? Or had she deluded herself?

She barely notices as she is shoved every now and then down steely corridor back to her cell. Should this place feel like home by now? Is she being stubborn in not seeing it that way? Probably not, it is unpleasant, authoritarian, it is never meant to feel like home; she is, apparently, not deserving of one.

She can feel herself slipping away, falling to the ground in pieces. There is one thing she can hold onto as she feels herself spiral, and she itches to return to her cell, suddenly impatient for it, for the stability, however artificial, however self-contrived it may be, that it provides.

The Judoon berate her as they shove her back into her cell, and once upon a time she might have berated them back, but she finds she does not care, focused with single-mindedness on her walls, laid out like years before her, and she slumps herself down on the edge of her ‘bed.’ She slumps forward, elbows on knees, exhausted, and tries to hold onto that last strand of sanity, even as her fingers go numb from the cold.

_Time, time is what she has, she can control it like this, just using these tallies. She can control it- pretend she has control._

She counts the tallies, begins to do little calculations with them, pretend she can play with time again. She zones out, her eyes are unblinking as they stare at the tallies, finding a strange sense of calmness in them. There is a ringing in her ears as she disconnects from the reality of her cell, from her reality.

And then.

A touch.

Unexpectedly warm.

The Doctor startles, her mantra broken, and scrambles from the bed. She looks up, spots a face, so familiar but yet so old- not old as in aged but old as in it has been years and _years_ since she has seen that face. Her mouth gapes, her hearts hammering away as her lungs freeze up, paralysed in confusion and shock. There is another face behind that first, and it has been even _longer_ since she has seen that one, she is sure, but is she really seeing them? Are they really here? No, no, they cannot be, because she has been trying to break out of here for years and they couldn’t have just…

She takes another step backward as the first face steps forward. “No… no…”

“Doctor?” She says, and the Doctor feels sick, suddenly, to hear her name (it has been so long since she heard her name!) from that voice. Is this it? Has the last petal fallen? Has her brain brought in something to console her as she finally goes around the twist? The warmth in her chest is distinguishing as the terror of it hits her. She wants to laugh. After all her lives and what is finally making her lose it is the one thing she has been longing to see for so long. Yaz. But Yaz cannot be here.

“That’s not possible, that’s not _possible._ ”

She backs into one of her cell walls, familiar, almost comforting in its grounding reality, despite how harsh the reality is. She stares at Yaz, she stares, and stares and stares and her fingers dig into cold metal and she puts more space between them- between her and the proof of her last hope fading. She is really too far gone now, isn’t she? Finding comfort in the cold walls that contain her. It is perverse. Yaz’s presence here is perverse, it is wrong, it sullies her brilliant beaming light. It is not even Yaz at all. It is the Doctor’s failure which stands in front of her.

And it is frozen, too, as the Doctor struggles to comes to terms with what has happened to her, and suddenly she finds herself in a confrontation, in the middle of her solitary cell. But she is so tired, and all she wants to do is give in, sink to the floor and tell them all they have _won:_ the Judoon, the inmates in here with her, the Master, all those years ago on Gallifrey, the Timelords, tell them they have finally defeated her because here she is- Yaz- the blossoming hope of humanity, of the _universe,_ but she is not really here, she has been twisted and turned into a symbol of the Doctor’s failure by the cold steely walls that oppress her, by the tallies she has created that were never going to be enough. The Doctor wants to scream, she wants to cry, she wants to slump to the floor and never move again.

But instead she is frozen against cold metal wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I wanted to give the impression that although Yaz and the Doctor have been reunited they are frozen by the impact of the situation and how different it is for them both- that being compounded by the horrible conditions of the prison, so I hope that came across okay! 
> 
> Tumblr: walker-lister  
> Twitter: @walkerlister1


	3. Warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and Yaz finally seek comfort in each other in the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished this, it's very late, so if it makes no sense.... that's why, but it's done and I knew I would just fiddle with it if i didn't post it now so please enjoy!

The wall against Yaz’s back is hard, but it is warm. The heating is on. Graham had thrown caution to his heating bill and switched it up full throttle. Guilt, perhaps? Guilt of months spent thinking thoughts of abandonment, only to discover that was never the case at all. Guilt to rid bones of heavy-set coldness, to lighten all of their hearts and minds. Yaz is not sure whether it is working, but she supposes they are all just doing the best they can; that is all they can ask for.

They have, to be fair, just defeated an attempt to control the universe by some of its most malicious inhabitants. They have worn out their very best on that. They are worn out from that. _She_ is worn out from that.

 _She_ is behind the door Yaz is currently waiting by. Yaz listens for moment behind it. She hears no movement at all. She takes charge for both their sakes. She needs to help as much as the Doctor needs help. Neither of them admits to it but it does not need saying. Yaz pushes off from the wall, rapping softly on wooden door with her knuckle.

The heat from the wall does not stay with her; she still feels chilled.

She opens the door, pausing in the doorway. The Doctor is slumped on the side of the bed, the soft, cushy bed, elbows on her knees as she holds the hoodie Yaz has leant her in her hands. Her eyes stare listlessly at the floor. Her hair is slicked back, but not with grease and dirt but with water, freshly washed.

Yaz closes the door behind her, and they are alone.

She moves slowly, limbs thawing, approaching the bed in Graham’s spare room, lent to Yaz in those early months of loss and now to the Doctor; some of Yaz’s clothes were still stored in the dresser, hence how the Doctor is now dressed in baggy sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, so different from the attire she had favoured ‘before’, but a big improvement on the prison jumpsuit.

Yaz’s ears ring slightly in the quiet of the room, the street outside deserted, lamplights dimly glowing through the window; no more chaos, no more invasion, everything is settled once more. Well, outside it is, things between all of them, the ‘fam’, are hardly settled. They are all standing shakily on the ground which moves beneath their feet, revelations, reunions, so many things happening Yaz’s head spins.

Yaz shifts on those unsteady feet, moving closer to the Doctor, who does not look up at her. They have barely had a moment together since- since that cell, and the horrid realisation of that place, and Yaz suddenly feels a nervousness flare up inside her, replacing the adrenaline rush of the last few hours, as she realises that this here is the _proper_ reunion, seeing the Doctor face to face without any present threat or a ticking timer over their heads. It is only Graham’s spare room they meet in, and whilst the two of them are still freezing cold the house is warm, and Yaz steps into the space directly in front of the Doctor, closing the gap that had sat between them, a chilly presence, in the prison cell.

She has no clue whether what she does is okay, whether the Doctor appreciates it or not, but she kneels down, peering up at the Doctor, looking for her eyes, hoping to meet them. Hazel opalescence are staring into the far distance, seeing something in her mind, a small frown mars her brow. Yaz longs to move her thumb up and brush it away, as if she could erase the pain the Doctor carries on her shoulders with one simple movement, but… she cannot. She is still tentative, caught between throwing caution to the wind and keeping it close to her chest. She wishes the Doctor would give her some indication of what is alright and what is not; she does not want to make things worse and do something the other woman does not like, not when she has been deprived of her own liberty for so long already. But Yaz is also desperate to throw away caution and grab the woman right in front of her who is the source of all her heartache of the last ten months. Tentatively, she puts a hand over the Doctor’s, which still grip the hoodie.

The Doctor’s breath stutters as she startles a little, shifting on the bed as her head raises and she meets Yaz’s eyes with her own. They are clearer now, back in the present, but still wide and unfamiliarly exposed and vulnerable; Yaz has seen the Doctor scared before, but this, this is like that terrible time on the _other_ Tardis when farewells were made and Yaz had longed to keep a hold of the Doctor then as she does now. The Doctor looks as devastated as she had, then, but this time, Yaz is staying. _She_ is staying.

“Yaz…” The Doctor says, her name reverent on her lips. Yaz’s breath stutters, and she offers the Doctor a small smile.

“Hi…” It feels good to talk to her, to talk to her and see she is engaging with her. For the first time in months, for the first time since Yaz thought this might not ever happen again. It makes her realise: this is not perfect, they are coming apart at the seams, but she will take it, oh, will she take this simple little thing. She nods down at the hoodie in the Doctor’s hands. “You want that on? I know it’s not really your colour, but I don’t own anything as outrageously colourful as you do.”

“Hmm?” The Doctor questions, but then looks down at the hoodie in her hands. “Oh. Yeah…”

Yaz helps her guide her arms and head into the garment and pull it over herself, her fingers grazing the Doctor’s sides as she pulls it down her body, the Doctor’s head popping through the neck. She is too skinny, her ribs hard against Yaz’s knuckles. She had not reacted to Yaz’s attempt at a joke, but when her head emerges from the neck hole, there is a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Yasmin Khan…” She murmurs, sounding wistful and wise, that ancient look in her eyes. How many more years added since last Yaz saw that look? “Amazing, you are. Best of humanity.”

Yaz shoots her a smile, something warm beaming in her chest the moment something else bitter curdles in her stomach. “Not always.” Regret and guilt sit heavy. “Couldn’t find you, could I?”

“Yaz…” The Doctor looks at her, confused, and Yaz averts her gaze to the carpet.

“Months I were looking, and I didn’t _think_ to even consider prison, I-”

“Yaz, stop.” The Doctor tells her, sounding more forceful and more like herself than she has in these private moments where bombastic attitude and cockiness are not needed, as they had been when confronting an army fleet, coming as an act, a façade, than she has up until this point. “You wouldn’t have been able to find that place, Yaz. It’s on the farthest outreaches of the universe, for a reason. It’s not supposed to be found, it’s not supposed to be broken into. It’s not-”

The Doctor’s voice falters, and her usual confidence is gone, swallowed down as other things rise to her eyes and face: grief, confusion, bewilderment. Yaz looks back up at her. Her hand reaches for the Doctor’s again, and this time she wraps her fingers around the Doctor’s. This is more than they ever really touched before. It is what Yaz needs, and by the way the Doctor’s fingers curl around Yaz’s in reciprocation, she apparently needs it just as much, too. “Was it awful there?”

The Doctor takes a shaky breath again and wets her lips with her tongue. “… Yes.”

Yaz’s face creases and upset rages a storm inside of her. The Doctor smiles sadly at her, noticing Yaz’s torment, that wistful look in her eye. _Yasmin Khan, the best of humanity._ “It weren’t amazin’. Pretty poor catering, shoddy heating. They really should have let me have a look, I probably would have sorted it out in a matter of seconds but they didn’t seem too keen on that idea. No clue why, I mean why wouldn’t they want me fiddling with totally secure, prison ship? Shoddy heating on purpose, I think.”

“Doctor.” Her name is a plea, Yaz shaking her head as sorrow swoops over her like a wave, crashing into her, drowning her. She is a battleground of emotions: relief and grief and sorrow combust upon reacting to each other. The Doctor is blabbering, she always does when she is nervous, but this time, it is tainted with something… colder. More desperate. Terrified.

“Staff weren’t all that nice, either.” She continues, barely stopping for breath. “Never liked Judoon, now I’ve got even more reason not to. Could have really done with some-”

“Doctor-” Yaz pleads, shaking her head from side to side.

The Doctor’s breath catches in her throat. “- courtesy.” She finishes lamely, the word dying as it leaves her mouth, the spark diminishing as she takes a shaky breath. She looks to Yaz, and Yaz sees her own devastation reflected in the Doctor’s eyes. “Yaz…”

Yaz leans forward a bit more, their faces inches apart, looking wide-eyed at the Doctor, who looks right back. There is nothing more in their way no, no confusion, no daleks, not time or space or coldness. Just stripped back vulnerability.

“I missed you.” The Doctor says. “All of you. My Fam. But you, Yaz… I _really_ missed you.”

Yaz could cry. Tears prick her eyes, but it is almost as if she is too exhausted to, she cannot conjure the energy. Or perhaps she is just too overcome with the emotions raging inside her that her body does not know quite what to do at all. She makes the decision, then, about what she wants to do, and she pushes forward and pulls the Doctor into a hug.

The other woman’s damp hair is in her face but Yaz could not care less because she is solid and present and _there,_ smelling of clean clothes, with that undercurrent of her own smell, uniquely hers. Yaz feels the Doctor’s arms wind around her own waist, and something in the other woman seems to snap and she sinks fully into Yaz’s embrace.

“How long?” Yaz whispers into her hair. She clenches her eyes tight shut. “How long were you there?”

The Doctor’s breath stutters out of her. “Too long.” She whispers back. “S’all a bit wonky.”

Yaz sniffs, not even realising she was crying, and the Doctor pulls her in closer.

“How long was it for you?” She asks Yaz.

Yaz sniffs again. Images of the other Tardis come unbidden to her mind. She cannot even remember where they left it. Her mausoleum is lost, unneeded, now, but its presence still sits heavy in her, not easy to erase after so long spent cooped up inside its wall. “Ten months.” She feels embarrassed, almost, to admit it. It sounds like nothing compared to what the Doctor is alluding to, but the Doctor tenses at her answer, and a small ‘Oh, Yaz’ follows soon after.

“The whole time, I looked for you.” Yaz says to her, pulling out of their hug to look the Doctor in the eye. She feels cold after they break apart, but she keeps close to the Doctor, whose hands rest on Yaz’s forearms, hazel eyes watching her, concerned. “I knew you were out there, I knew you weren’t dead. I had- I used the other Tardis, I tried to get it working but it’s got nothing on yours, so I just… I sort of… started investigatin’, any leads I could find to bring me back to you…”

Yaz’s cheeks are burning, but the Doctor looks at her with nothing short of amazement. It is the same look she had had on her face when she had first stepped back onboard the Tardis, once they have convinced her of their reality, led her from her desolate cell. A face of wonder, relief, and of coming home. Those eyes look upon Yaz that way now, too, and Yaz stares right back, finding home in those deep eyes herself, their warmth comforting. The reality of them comforting. Embarrassment falls away, finally, after months, Yaz feels legitimated in her search, vindicated, because the one she was searching for is here and she looks at Yaz as if she is nothing less brilliant than something brilliant and impossible, and something within Yaz that has been hurt since childhood finally begins to heal. She had been enough; her efforts have been enough. So long searching and she has found her again. She has found home. In the middle of a storm, they cling to each other, anchoring each other.

The Doctor’s relief becomes awash with exhaustion, and Yaz grips onto her worriedly as she slumps, bending her own head down to try and look at the Doctor’s face as her head droops down. The Doctor looks up at her from below a creased brow, face pale, pulled tight. “Sorry, head’s a bit… wonky.”

“Come here.” Yaz says to her and encourages her to lie down on the bed. The Doctor does, and her legs automatically curl up to her chest. Yaz thinks of the small slab of concrete in her cell. Her chest tightens. Determination grips her, and she rises to her feet, climbing over the Doctor and over to the other side of the bed. It is only a single, and her back is pressed against the wall as she draws the Doctor into her, but it is warm, not cold. Yaz is surrounded by warmth, as she and the Doctor lie down and hold each other close, the Doctor’s legs stretching out as she melts into Yaz’s hold. The bed beneath them soft, concrete floor and metal floor in their turn forgotten by both women.

“Ryan and Graham are cross at me, aren’t they?” The Doctor mutters, her eyes clenched shut. “I can tell.”

“They’re not mad, they’re just… processing it all.” Yaz reassures her.

“They were cross, though?” The Doctor says, and Yaz’s lips twitch in fond exasperation as the Doctor headbutts her way verbally into getting Yaz to confess. “They thought I abandoned them?”

Yaz takes a breath in to answer, but instead she just sighs, and that is confirmation enough for the Doctor, who simply nods once before she edges closer to Yaz.

“I wouldn’t have abandoned you, not my fam.” She mutters, and her voice is getting looser, words slurring a little as exhaustion overcomes her. “I know I weren’t very forthcoming, in those last months, but I wouldn’t have just left you. I were just…”

“You were just what?” Yaz asks her, giving into temptation to run a hand through the Doctor’s hair, which is getting wavy as it dries naturally.

“I were just scared.” She admits. “Of losing you.”

Questions push towards the front of Yaz’s mind, questions she had put to bed whilst she had searched for the Doctor but which are wide awake now, as the one who could provide them with answers falls asleep. Yaz pushes them away again, knowing now is not the time but hoping that this vulnerability here might be the start of a new honesty with her, a new openness now that they have both exposed their vulnerabilities to each other.

Yaz simply moves that tiny fraction closer so their bodies are fully aligned, no small gaps between them, and holds the Doctor close as the parts of herself begin to heal together as she is held by the Doctor in her turn. “You’re not losing me. Not again. And I’m not losing you.”

And with the Doctor finally _warm_ in her arms, Yaz finally believes herself. 

* * *

Time. There is too much of it, flowing around her. The planet is too _alive_ beneath her feet. She can hardly get her bearings. She almost longs for the static artificiality of the prison just so she can feel stable, an unstable stability. She is emerging from the woods, lost and afraid, staggering into the daylight, and the sun hurts her eyes and the path is rocky beneath her feet and somehow, it is almost more terrifying than the woods had been, even though it is what she had been longing for all that time in the woods.

Her reprieve… the person she has longed to see. The person she thought was not there before, she thought she had conjured up to punish herself. It was a rescue mission, a ‘Doctor, the Universe needs you mission’, and she had tried oh so hard to get through it, and she has, only there is no victory, no sudden alleviation of all her worries… She does not feel herself. She does not know herself, not anymore. She is… disconnected. Dissociated.

She is so tired.

But that person is here, _Yaz_ is here, and she is a reassuring presence whilst breaking the Doctor’s two hearts at the same time. Human beings are brilliant, and Yaz really is the very best of humanity, and the Doctor know that sometimes caring can be one’s biggest downfall, and she is so very worried that Yaz has fallen too far in caring too much for _her._ Guilt curls up inside her as the other woman laments she could not find her, that she had been looking for her, and here the Doctor is, barely being held together at the seams, a deep chill in her bones as she struggles to find her footing and her _self_ whilst this woman, this brave young woman, helps her get dressed whilst carrying weight of all of that on her shoulders.

She thinks human beings will always astonish her. Perhaps even more than the mystery surrounding herself ever might, because she finds hope in humans like Yaz, and that is a wonderful thing.

The Doctor tries to reassure Yaz, to tell her her searching would have been for nought because the place the Doctor had been- _had_ been, because she is not there anymore. No, she is in Graham’s spare bedroom, feeling the earth move beneath her feet, and oh, there she goes again, wavering whilst Yaz supports her, holds them both up by being her brilliant self, blabbering about the conditions of that place, desperately trying to make light of them whilst her body on autopilot wants to move in those now familiar patterns of living, of containment. She needs to break free of it, come back to reality, find her footing on the spinning earth, but her mouth is running away with her and the feeling of that chilly iciness feels as if it is on her skin, in her lungs, but then-

“Doctor.” Yaz is pleading, and the Doctor’s words die on her tongue and she at Yaz, _properly_ looks at her and suddenly it hits her all over again that she is out and she is here and Yaz is here with her.

“Yaz…”

Yaz moves closer, and she is properly there, the Doctor is seeing clearly, there is nothing else in her way, just Yaz, all Yaz.

“I missed you.” She admits. “All of you. My Fam. But you, Yaz… I _really_ missed you.”

Yaz crumples in front of her, and before the Doctor knows it, she is being pulled into a hug, Yaz hiding her face in her hair. Her arms snake around Yaz’s waist, and she realises how much the younger woman needs this, how much _she_ needs this, too, and if she can provide Yaz with some comfort than she is going to push aside any discomfort, any residual feelings of agitation of this being so much after so little for so long and simply sinks into Yaz’s hold and finds calmness there instead.

Yaz is crying, the Doctor can hear it, her psychic tendencies feeling the sorrow seeping off of Yaz, the relief and the grief, as well. And then the other woman is asking, “How long? How long were you there?”

Yaz’s sorrow dims down as her own surges to bubble under her skin. She does not want to upset the other woman further as she sees tally marks imprinted on the back of her eyelids as she closes her eyes, wincing. So she simply says, “Too long.” She sighs. “S’all a bit wonky,” she adds a small amount of honesty, not wanting to lie to Yaz; the woman deserves more than lies. 

“How long was it for you?” She asks Yaz, terrified to know the answer.

“Ten months.” Yaz answers her, and part of the Doctor is relieved, it could have been _much_ worse, but then regret hits her like a freight train and a small ‘Oh, Yaz’ leaves her lips. Those months must have dragged in the uncertainty. If only the Doctor had done more to break herself out, if only she had not failed so many times.

But before she can express her regret Yaz is pushing away from her, young eyes bright with desperation and a strength of conviction that is uniquely Yaz’s. “The whole time, I looked for you.” She says, and the Doctor keeps her close with her hands on Yaz’s forearms, leaning on her subtly to keep herself upright as her head begins to spin again. “I knew you were out there, I knew you weren’t dead. I had- I used the other Tardis, I tried to get it working but it’s got nothing on yours, so I just… I sort of… started investigatin’, any leads I could find to bring me back to you…”

Warm hope bursts in the Doctor’s chest like a flower blossoming, and for the first time in many, _many_ years a tension leaves the Doctor as stares at Yaz, she stares and stares and stares. The other woman is alive, stars in her eyes, a supernova of brilliance, of perseverance. And she is _here_ in front of the Doctor; she did not even know she was holding on to some lingering doubt this was all real before, but whatever small cobwebs which had lurked in the corner have been blown away now in the face of Yaz’s desperation, her… love. Yes, because that is what this is, even if it is not named as such. It is love. And the Doctor… She feels it back. It is comforting, surrounding her, a familiar love just like the Tardis is a familiar love. It is like coming home in Yasmin Khan’s eyes.

And _here_ Yasmin Khan is, bruised and affected by all these months of waiting and searching but she truly is the best of humanity, persevering through it, taking a hold of her pain and not letting it get the best of her. She can see the desperation in Yaz’s eyes, the desperation to be validated, reassured that her efforts have not been unfounded, misplaced, and the Doctor… in the past, she might have stumbled back from it, worried about the impact she is having on this wonderful woman. She does worry, now, to think of Yaz sequestering herself away in that Tardis ( _has she kept her job? Oh please, let her have, I could not have ruined that for fantastic Officer Khan_ ), worries about the impact she might have on this human life, but she realises, now, that Yasmin Khan does not need her protection, does not need shielding. She is not limited by her human life, she is more than this Earth, this universe, and the Doctor is the one lucky enough to have been chosen by her, not the other way around.

Her heart hurts for Yaz’s pain but she is wise enough now in her considerable years to know, sometimes, there are some things you cannot change, and Yasmin Khan will not be changed for anyone; the girl has seen too much of that in her lifetime, already, prejudice, pressure to conform, but there is certainty in her eyes, glowing as brightly as starlight, that the Doctor is her home, and she is home to the Doctor. One of the first faces this face saw, always by her side, and yet never blindsided. She sees the Doctor’s negative attributes, and she refuses to be shoved to the side. _We’re not letting you do this._

The Doctor had pushed her away, then, she will not do so now. Time will pass, it always does, and the Doctor does not know what will be in store for them; there is always sand draining away in the timer. But for too long now she has been prisoner to time, and now, she forgets it, forgets tallies and past lives and simply exists as she is here, with Yasmin Khan, having gotten through it all, and in thinking that, all she feels is relief.

Suddenly she feels drained, relief a sudden rollercoaster of adrenaline followed by the plummet towards exhaustion. She slumps, feeling irritated at herself as she does. “Sorry, head’s a bit… wonky.”

“Come here.” Yaz is saying, and she is guiding the Doctor to lay down on the bed. She goes willingly, giving in now that she can afford to. She is safe here. Her legs curl up into herself on habit, and the Doctor feels slightly repulsed at the thought of herself _conditioned_ like that, but then Yaz is there and her presence forces the Doctor to move her legs out, and then they are clinging to each other, and the warmth in the Doctor’s chest spreads throughout her whole body.

The exhaustion is digging its fingernails in deep, but there is one small thing playing on the Doctor’s mind. Yaz’s face had been understanding from the beginning, but there are two other faces which swim in front of the back of her eyelids, memory of their shock, their incomprehension, their… wariness. Regret curls up in her. “Ryan and Graham are cross at me, aren’t they?” She asks Yaz. “I can tell.”

“They’re not mad, they’re just… processing it all.” Yaz replies diplomatically, but the Doctor wants to get to the truth of it; she has always been obstinate like that.

“They were cross, though? They thought I abandoned them?”

Yaz’s sigh in response is confirmation enough, and that regret lodges itself in her chest, the only discomfort in her warmth. It is familiar, coming back to her after all these years, reminding her of a time with her fam, a time when she thought evasion was better than truth, distance was better than closeness, a tight-knit family with disfunction at its centre, all of them doing their best but not quite working in harmony. How she regrets it now. But it had been fun, things had been amazing, and she had not wanted to expose them to certain truths of her being and in turn force herself to confront them. She thinks they might be past that now, that truths are owed now, that it will be better in the telling of them, but for now, weariness sinks deep and she can feel herself loosening.

“I wouldn’t have abandoned you, not my fam.” She confesses, sleep calling her. She can feel the Tardis, parked downstairs, in the back of her mind, standing vigil, safeguarding her against nightmares. _Sleep well, my thief._ “I know I weren’t very forthcoming, in those last months, but I wouldn’t have just left you. I were just…”

“You were just what?” Yaz asks her when she drifts off, and the Doctor feels a hand run through her hair. It is affectionate and delicate and breaks her at the same time because it is all she has wanted all these years. Just a soft touch from someone who loves her, despite her faults.

“I were just scared.” She admits, and she does not feel afraid this time. “Of losing you.”

And that is the first step towards something better, towards something more honest. And as the Doctor drifts off, she hears Yaz’s whispered words to her, like a promise, a cantation, and they carry her to the first proper rest she has had in centuries. “You’re not losing me. Not again. And I’m not losing you.”

And the Doctor feels those words and this brilliant woman wrap around her and hold her close and _warm_ , and finally, _finally,_ she begins to believe that the universe might be so kind this time as to make those words the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the justification for Yaz and the Doctor's feelings are okay; tbh Chibnall has not explained much about how they are all travelling and how this impacts Yaz's life on earth so i went with what felt right for them in that moment seeking comfort in each other.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I started this randomly at the beginning of the week so nice to have it finished so quick! I'll reply to comments asap, I'm very behind but thank you so so much for them, but right now it is late and I am going to bed!
> 
> Tumblr: walker-lister  
> Twitter: @walkerlister1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This honestly might not even make any sense I'm very tired but I wanted to put this out there! Would love to know what you thought!
> 
> Tumblr: walker-lister  
> Twitter: @walkerlister1


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